


my lover, my liar

by ultraviolence



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Porn, Biting, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Cock Rings, Collars, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Murder, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Blood, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Obsession, Partial Mind Control, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: There are rumours that the charming, young genius of an architect Orson Krennic is a vampire. Little do they know, things aren't as simple as it seems, and appearances can be deceiving. AU.





	my lover, my liar

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the amazing [roberthouse](http://roberthouse.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, my partner for the bang <3
> 
> Sentence prompt "this is not a quiet lie. It is violent and shattering." shamelessly borrowed from the Kylux cantina. Enjoy!

**one—**

There are scenes he remembered. Scenes he’d forgotten. Scenes half-remembered, creatures in-between, submerged in the mysterious half-lit shadowy underworld of the subconscious. Sometimes, when he is lucid enough, lying awake in the middle of the night, alone, for once, he tried to retrace his steps to (an evening buried underneath a dozen or so memories) back where it all started, following the glowing thread that binds them to both each other and the past, an eldritch map, but he found himself, always, in front of a locked door.

Orson Krennic did not make superstitions a habit.

That night, he found himself working furiously in his office, artificial lights filling the empty spaces, a still-lit cigarette lying in the ashtray beside his state-of-the-art computer. The night has darkened into the sort of blue that graced only the deepest of dreams, but he did not seem to notice the passing of time. Neither did he seem to notice everything else, even the beeping of his mobile phone, placed near the ashtray.

He’d just leaned back in his seat, letting out a sigh and reaching for the cigarette, when his phone rings. He glanced at it the way one might check if something is dangerous or not, then, upon seeing the caller ID, he picked up the call, a feline smile gracing his features.

It wasn’t long before he put in a little more effort towards whatever it was he’d been working on, then turned off the computer and picked up what’s left of his cigarette (before deciding to stub it and light another one), gathered the rest of his things, and eventually leave, turning off the light in his office and closing the door behind him.

In the darkness, nothing moved, not even the silence.

**two—**

It was a long drive to what feels like the edge of the night, neon lights flashing past until everything ultimately turned to long stretches of forever. Out here, the night was eternal, and all other creatures ephemeral, strobing lights that eventually slow down and die. He stopped the car (not _his_ car, somebody else’s) on the side of the road (when he decided that it’s far enough and dark enough) and turned off all the engines. Listened to the night making a noise out of the endless cacophony of silence, before unbuckling the seat belt, pulling out the key from the ignition, and stepping out of the car.

It’s not as easy as fiction made it sound. Before this, there was blood, and in the after, there was blood, too (there must _always_ be blood), and there were lies, quiet ones, but now, there was only silence. Silence and the sound of his footsteps, the dead weight behind him, off to join the night.

After that, he sat in the car, again with the silence, and he dialled a number. The most important number.

Quiet lies always made way for the more violent ones, the ones that fired truths like a bullet.

**three—**

“Sometimes I wonder when all of this would stop,” he says, after sex, reaching for his cigarettes. Some things the night couldn’t erase.

The other man—the man with stardust in his eyes but ice water in his veins, if at all—turned to face him, Krennic’s phone in his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. Such a breach of privacy was usually considered to be among the worst of sins, but Galen was being methodical.

“There’s someone poking around, came into my office yesterday. A detective. I hope you know what you’re doing,” the younger man told him, anxiety bleeding into his voice, “because it’s my life that’s at stake here. Not only my career or my reputation or even my personal life. But my _life_.”

“And what did you do to discourage them?” Galen responded, dangerously calm. He put the phone on the bedside table, sliding back to Krennic’s side. There was a lot of unspoken things in his question, and Krennic held his gaze, before shifting it elsewhere.

“Told my secretary not to let her in, of course,” he said, finally managing to find a measure of calm. “Are we going to get rid of her?”

Galen shrugged, and Krennic didn’t really feel his worry abating. If anything, it fans them, and he reached out for the other, who avoided his touch. He frowned.

“Depends on how the situation develops,” the other man said (tone as cold as the night, but Krennic didn’t want to see it), moving closer only a fraction. Then, he added: “And how _you_ react, Orson. You know all of this—all of _us_ —depended on how well you can keep this up.”

Krennic opened his mouth, was about to say something, but then closed it again. Galen moved closer, then, a hand caressing his exposed thigh. The set of Krennic’s mouth turned into something like disappointment, something like protest, but he kissed the other all the same, full on the mouth. It was a sloppy, hungry kiss, but neither of them seemed to be bothered by it.

“I’ll do my best,” Krennic promised him, and even as he felt himself being pulled on top of the other and angled to kiss him, he knows a truth that would shatter all the lies: it’s always better to lie than to refuse, to say no. To disappoint someone—especially this particular someone, this man underneath him, with his once-kind eyes and his secret smiles—who had placed their faith in him, no matter how misplaced or twisted, was an unthinkable sin. “I love you.”

Galen’s radio silence, in return, could have shattered the stars, but Krennic meant it all the same. 

**four—**

The pleasant haze was all that he’d ever known, and he remembered, vaguely, that there was blood, and the other man did taste like that most ancient of elixirs when their lips touched (and elsewhere where his lips touched his body), but Krennic could have cared less. He couldn’t see him, too—the blindfold blocked everything except the faintest interplay of light and shadows—and neither could he remember how he came to be here (there was something about driving and a hotel room and then the tiniest pinprick of sensation, covered by kisses, and his brain was telling him that he was bleeding, but he doesn’t care, not when their bodies were pressed together so tightly they could have been one person instead of two), and somewhere in the haze there was a single, tiny point of lucidity that asked him to care and remember, but it was easier to forget and pretend. It was easier to stand outside that locked door and make himself believe that there was fire instead of bone-crushing, mind-numbing cold.

He could feel Galen’s fingers, not exploring but bending him to his will with that methodical, precise way of his—the power that was Krennic’s, in the world beyond the closed door—and it distracted him from the invasive train of thought. Krennic pushed it away, focusing instead on the pleasurable sensation of the other man’s fingers and his (cold) warmth, pinpricks of light in a darkened world. The bed shifted under his weight, and he pinned Krennic’s body harder to it, the sensation of his lips registering on Krennic’s neck (his brain screamed and struggled, and he felt the pangs of a primal fear, a fear too deep to be expressed in words and too visceral to be caught in a metaphor), and there was a word in the back of his throat, a single shattering word that was quickly drowned by superficial pleasure—

“Did you stop her?”

Krennic’s throat tightened, the word was forgotten, the haze lifting up a little, and he felt able to start thinking again by virtue of the suddenness of the question. It was even harder to talk, to find words.

“Her. The one you mentioned. The detective,” Galen continued, carefully, sensing Krennic’s confusion, lips still brushing his neck. “Did you?”

There was silence, again, as Krennic tried to remember, tried to find a path out of the mind fog or at least cleared a trail to be able to connect the dots and find out what Galen means. He felt another kiss lavished on his neck, Galen’s lips caressing the exposed skin, while his grip on Krennic’s wrists tightened.

“I pulled out a couple of favours,” he finally responded, just as careful, not wanting the other man to stop, even if a voice in the back of his mind told him to _fight_. “I planted a false trail. I hope that would be enough.”

“For now, maybe,” Galen said, and there was an undercurrent of impatience in his tone, as his nails dug marks on Krennic’s pinned wrists. Krennic sometimes wondered where the gentle him had gone, the one that he had known all those years ago, before something happened to him—something dark and twisted that took root inside of him and never let go. Even now, he wondered if that dark creature had started to infect him, too, or if Galen planned to infect him with the same disease that he was now suffering from, in the future. Other times Krennic wondered if he had ever truly known him at all, or if it was all a myth concocted by his own mind. “But not in the long run.”

“Well, you can’t keep doing _this_ ,” Krennic snapped, feeling a flash of red-hot anger igniting inside of him, forgetting their roles and what’s going on between them for a moment. “Sooner or later someone’s going to catch up. And you’re not the only one who’s going to burn.”

Even with his vision being temporarily held hostage, Krennic could feel Galen’s simmering anger. He was not the type to explode (unlike Krennic), but he’d keep it all inside until there comes the right time. Then he’ll unleash it. Krennic cringed, instinctively, trying to draw back and pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

Instead of a cold retort, a passive-aggressive one, or one boiling with suppressed anger, Krennic felt his lips on his throat (run, the voice in the back of his mind says, don’t look back), and he bared himself to him, head thrown back in a gesture of ecstasy and surrender.

“You’re leaking,” Galen commented, his voice a purr as soft as the night sky, and just as cold. “You wanted it.”

_It_. Not him. Krennic smiled, coldly, realising that it’s too late to pull out now. That anything was better than saying no, than to risk—and he surely will—losing it all. He was, after all, always good at telling other people what they wanted to hear, including Galen. Perhaps even more so, with him. At least, that is what he’d like to believe.

“I do,” he breathed, biting the lie and savouring the taste, arching his body up to meet his. He felt his wrists being forced higher up, pulled forcefully beside his head, and he was made hostage, the helplessness rising, and a sinking feeling— “I want you, Galen.”

Then the pinpricking sensation returned—the opening of a soft door followed by a dripping, an offering, of liquid—and the pain was subdued, muted by the haze, mixed and heightened with pleasure, and Krennic vaguely felt himself struggling against the other man’s weight, a string of moans mixed with curses and protests escaping his lips, but he found himself strangely cold of all of it, a distant, disembodied observer. Something was drained from him—was _stolen_ —but Krennic doesn’t know exactly what, and he found himself unable to care at the moment. His struggles gradually ceased, and he found himself relaxing against all odds ( _familiar_ odds), only straining again when he felt the other pulling away from his throat (the pricking sensation was gone, but he was still bleeding—), letting out a noise of protest (or relief, he doesn’t know which is which anymore).

Galen found Krennic’s lips again, wet lips tasting sharp like himself (like silence, like blood), and Krennic sighed against the kiss. He was on the brink now.

“Now,” Galen whispered, his voice the only thing in the world, his hands had at some point relinquished their hold of Krennic’s wrists and was now around him, enveloping him. “Will you let me in?”

Krennic shuddered, not from the temperature of the room nor the man (a ghost) pressed against him. There was something profoundly intimate in the question, something violating and visceral. Galen always had penetrating insights, like he was seeing into another world.

Like he _was_ another world.

“You know my answer,” he said, tentatively reaching out, trying to find his face in the imposed darkness. Galen’s hands guided him, and he caressed his cheek, tracing the texture of his skin (fairly rough, Krennic recognised his stubble) and trying to imagine how he must have looked like right now. The small voice in the back of his mind—reason is always the first casualty of any sort of war, even inner turmoil—shuddered violently, and died. “I’d always say yes.”

Galen, he imagined, would have been satisfied with his answer, his lips quirking into a slight, pleased smile. Krennic felt the briefest touch of his lips on his hand, the one on Galen’s cheek, and it was everything and nothing.

This is not a quiet lie. It is violent and shattering.

**five—**

To the rest of the world, they were beautiful, untouched. Perfect.

He had seen how people looked at them when they were together—when Krennic picked Galen up after his shift in the hospital, two days out of the four that he’s working, or when they looked at each other, sun and moon, or even when they were out drinking and dancing at the club, making out in the corner when they think nobody’s looking too closely—and he’s had acquaintances (not friends, Orson Krennic didn’t do friends) asking him about his boyfriend or complimenting his choice, and he was pretty sure that if Galen still has anyone else he’d kept in touch with, he probably received the same artificial, hollow words, as well. But they were never official, and Krennic has never really said anything about it.

Not anything that he wasn’t specifically instructed to do.

The night has teeth, and Krennic was in the business to weaponise it. Not only that, he wanted it to love him as he is, blood and bone and a war in his mind. What happens when sunlight couldn’t touch you?

What happens when they only kiss after dark, in the neon glow of the streetlights?

They sat together, knees almost touching, at the bar this time, the bar that Galen used to love and the one they used to frequent together—oh how the _sun_ looked at that time, how the temperature dropped after evening falls, although the terrible, searing humidity stayed, and they stumbled together, opening the door, laughter lines creasing their faces, the day’s frivolities tucked behind them like a faithful companion—and neither of them was looking at the other, smoke from their cigarettes filling the empty space between them like something from the past, like the ruins of something once sacred but now forgotten.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” he started, breaking the silence. Krennic was never very good at silences, least of all Galen’s. The other man did not look at him, blowing smoke out of his lungs. Krennic waited.

“What do you want me to say, Orson?”

Krennic smiled, a practised one, leaning closer like he was about to tell him a secret. “Perhaps something on your mind. You’ve been thinking, you’ve always been thinking. Perhaps you can tell me that you’ve been thinking of me. That kind of thing.”

“Then I’d be lying,” Galen said, smiling slightly, and Krennic returned that smile, even as he felt a sharp pang piercing his heart. “But I love you.”

He was surprised, then, face opening up like a locked box, but then he glanced at the newcomer, who took a seat beside Galen, and his surprise quickly turned into a grimace, like how the sharp pain piercing his heart turned deadly and venomous. _He only loved me when there are other people around_.

Sometimes, he remembered: the mind fog lifting, just a little, only enough for him to truly realise where he is and what he’s doing. The first time, he was on top of Galen, fucking him (or at least he _thinks_ he was), when the blind realisation shattered him, pounding him to pieces. The second time, he was being punished for a mistake (something that he’d said, no doubt, but Krennic can’t remember what), the collar wound a little too tightly around his neck, and the haze lifted, ever so slightly, and he realised—

His lips curled into a grimace. The detective was here. It would mean catastrophe if she caught on, and Krennic had a buried fear that occasionally surfaced, mostly when he’s alone under the merciless glare of the sun—the inevitable dread that someday, someone would—and he quickly smiled, watching from the corner of his eyes the similar transformation that has taken over Galen, slow and vicious and utterly whole. While he seemingly shrunk into himself, taking up less space, Krennic slung a hand casually over his shoulder and landed a sloppy kiss on his lips, just the tiniest display of possessiveness.

This has always been how they played it. It was the only way.

Krennic’s smile widens slightly at her approach, savage and utterly merciless. “Good evening, Detective,” he greeted her, taking a long drag from his cigarette, cocking his head to better look at her. He was confidence personified, equally respected and feared, a promising young architect looking for his big break. Not loved, Orson Krennic didn’t do love. “What brings you to this part of town?”

Krennic felt Galen’s gaze on him, then, only the briefest moment, cold and piercing, and he knows what it means: _don’t fail me. Play this right_. His smile wavered for a moment, but he carried on.

He couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

**six—**

When he came to it, he had his back against a desk, Galen’s desk, and a collection of vague, blurred, half-finished images comes into mind, struggling against the overwhelming current of the pleasant haze that threatened to keep him under. Krennic remembered, briefly—one of the clearer images—of leaving the bar earlier, and then at some point, there’s a sensation—an utterly familiar one at this point—a pinprick and the world lost its focus, a pinprick and he lost his mind.

Quite literally. He couldn’t dwell on the thought for too long, feeling another body pressed against him, fingertips seeking the buttons of his shirt, and he was saying something—

“You underestimated her,” Galen said, and the world comes into focus—the dark of his shirt that matched the dark of his eyes and hair, the pattern of the curtains covering the nearest window, the study itself—the haze clouding his mind receding somewhat. Krennic immediately directed his focus to Galen’s gaze on his, demanding his attention—he was only this demanding with him, an achievement that makes Krennic wants to smile—and his fingers, already unbuttoning his shirt with that deft, methodical way of his. He opened his mouth to respond and Galen kissed him on his open mouth, hungry, as savage and merciless as the smile that Krennic gave the detective earlier, but he didn’t flinch, nor did he move to return or even deepen the kiss.

“What do you want _me_ to say, Galen?” Krennic told him, an echo of the question the other man asked him earlier at the bar. "Earlier"  meant roughly a couple of hours back, before the encounter had ruined what was supposedly their evening together, and Krennic had the privilege of choosing the place, for once. He was still not over it, and he was sulking quietly on the drive back, although a tiny voice in the back of his mind tried to tell him that Galen barely noticed. Galen barely noticed anything nowadays about him, even while they’re having sex. Even when he’s giving him everything he wanted, blood and bone and the war in his mind. Krennic almost smiled ironically at the thought. That’s just typical, of course.

After all, what is love but expecting to be loved back? The desire, the will, the overpowering craving of _please, please love me_. It’s just one more thing before the endless night, the deep sleep at the end of life, but somehow, he wanted it. Somehow, he _craved_ it.

Galen watched him for a moment, hands clutching the fabric of Krennic’s shirt, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Krennic thought that he saw who— _what_ —he used to be, stardust eyes and stars in his mind, before everything turned to ice and only the void remains. He found himself—mostly in-between the endless exhaustion of staying up all night and the equally endless pile of work—wondering what happened to him, in the intervening years, before they run into each other again, that one night at that one club. Wondering if all his dreams had turned into ash, or if it was something else.

It was hard to think straight with the fog in his mind, and he felt some sort of an internal conflict—the voice in the back of his mind told him no, this isn’t right, but at the same time Krennic was sure that he wanted this, he wanted Galen, always—a turmoil boiling underneath his skin, and he felt himself being pulled in for another kiss, tilting his head up to better receive it, a softer one this time. Almost warm. Almost loving.

It was easy to believe that he loved him, that all of this was for love, love, love. The only thing that ever truly mattered.

“I thought maybe you’d like to say something in your defence,” Galen said, the softness of it surprised him, while his fingers moved to continue unbuttoning Krennic’s shirt, stopping before he went all the way, instead moving up to part the collar. Krennic felt the overwhelming need to reassure him somehow, to admit that he’d fucked up and that he will do better next time, but a brief wave of shock washed over him at the realisation that that’s not what he _actually_ wanted to do. He felt confused and somewhat betrayed, displeased and even—he swallowed hard at the thought— _exploited_. “But you have nothing, do you?”

A flash of anger shot through Krennic, streaking like a comet across the sky, but he let the other pushed his shirt down, gently, the fabric pooling on his elbow, leaving his neck, throat, and upper torso exposed. He felt Galen’s lips on him again, then, and his hands, reaching for something from the drawer beside him, as Krennic’s hands were pushed behind his back—

He felt the cuffs locking around his wrists, securing them in place.

Galen smoothed his hair, a lover’s gesture, fingertips arranging the half-undone shirt neatly. He smiled at him, but Krennic could only feel a coldness seeping into his blood, a brief moment of sobriety, a numbness that snapped him out of his shock, although evidently not enough to clear the mind fog entirely. He let the anger wash over him again.

“You’re not even good at this,” he hissed, fighting against the desire to roll over and apologise, the sudden overwhelming guilt and the fear that he had disappointed Galen. It was hard, and he found himself flinching at the other man’s touch. “Don’t cut me off. I’m not done talking yet. I know you like me quiet and asking no questions, your lap dog asking for scraps. But,” he leans forward, their lips almost touching, his lips curling into a snarl while Galen watched, transfixed, hands resting lightly on Krennic’s waist. “You _need_ me. Admit it, Galen. You can’t survive without me. How are you going to get your supply of willing humans? You can’t survive on a diet of cold refrigerated blood from the hospital storage. And I don’t think catching them unaware in empty parking lots and dark alleys are your style.” he let his lips curved up into a slow, cruel smile. “I know, you know. Do you think I’m blind? Or some sort of a useful idiot? No, I know,” Krennic shook his head, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth, struggling to remember how this all started. “Although maybe that’s all I ever was to you. A useful idiot. Now, isn’t that _enlightening?_ Unlike you, and despite what you may think about me, I am capable of _self-introspection_. And this…this isn’t your grand achievement,” he paused, his smile widening despite the haze and the guilt—of disobeying Galen so blatantly, Krennic discovered, much to his surprise—shifting slightly. “It’s mine.”

It was draining, the anger and the guilt and the fear, always the fear, hiding in the back of his mind, and Krennic felt his shoulders sag after the speech, suddenly feeling very tired. They weren’t like this, once. Or were they? Did his memories lie to him, as Galen had, or as Krennic had, to him? The confusion returned with a vengeance, and Krennic felt a little relieved when Galen tilted his chin, prompting him to look at him, feeling his lips on his. It was an oddly welcome distraction, and he found himself melting into the kiss, letting the pleasant sensation and the haze taking over for a moment.

“You’re right, Orson,” he said, and Krennic felt himself smiling again. “I do like you quiet,” Krennic’s smile wavered as Galen’s lips seek his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “And I need you,” the other man added, more quietly, leaving another mark on his collarbone, his fingers pushing Krennic’s shirt down a little more, and Krennic let out a small, needy noise. “In the…broad sense of the word. But right now I need you to be quiet and obedient, or I’d need to discipline you. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

Krennic laughed at that, spontaneously, masking the growing hollowness inside of him, the quiet, growing disappointment and the reluctance. You don’t want him to touch you anymore, a small voice in the back of his mind said, but he held Galen’s gaze, fighting the haze. “You’re a fucking asshole and you didn’t even apologise for doubting me or my judgment,” he said, softly, feeling Galen’s fingertips teasing his exposed chest, then caressed his thigh, and he opened his legs for him, obediently. “But God…I want you so bad. Let’s stop all this talk about the detective, she’s just a minor harassment, and soon, she’ll move on to something else that would offer her a more concrete opportunity to advance her career. Let’s just forget her,” he told him, smiling invitingly, feeling his cock growing hard even as he felt a flash of doubt, of reluctance. “Take off my pants and jerk me off. Use me. Mark me some more. Make me cum hard.”

He felt the other man’s hand move to finger his growing hardness, lips seeking his neck, and Krennic nuzzled against him, feeling his frustration grow, inflamed by his own inner turmoil. Galen’s hands moved up first to his waist, then around him, wrapping him into an almost hug, a strangely gentle gesture, a temporary shelter in the storm. Part of him wishes that it would last, but another part of him—the vicious one, the one he’s most familiar with—wanted to push him away with his body, to break free.

It wasn’t enough that he messed my mind up, he thought, feeling the cold flash of sudden hatred, he had to mess up my heart, too.

“You’re not in charge, Krennic,” Galen whispered, and Krennic bit him in the neck, not hard enough to make him squirm, but he likes hearing him moan as much as Galen likes hearing him beg. The other man retaliates by kissing him hard on the mouth—that’s more like it, Krennic thought—and just when he thought that Galen was going to withdraw, the other man bit his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood.

“What took you so long?” Krennic demanded, snaking a leg around his, grinding his hard-on against his thigh. “Come on. Hurt me. Convince me that you love me.”

Galen licked the blood on his lips, and Krennic kissed him hungrily, the pain puncturing the mind fog, making it feel real. He wanted more of that, the hot desire nesting in his belly while his head told him, no, and he was more than a little disappointed when Galen pulled back.

“I was going to save you until after I’m done with work and watch you like this for a bit, but, God, Orson,” Krennic smiled at him, a slow and vicious and bloody smile, liking the taste of his own blood. He could almost pretend that it was something sacred, something forgotten and terrible. “You _are_ impatient, aren’t you? It was a mistake to bring you to my study.”

Galen’s hands went back to his shirt, and Krennic wanted him to just get it over with, biting the inside of his cheek, drawing more blood, tasting it on his tongue almost gleefully, the pain making him forgot his own inner turmoil, his burning, searing need to be loved, loving someone who couldn’t—and wouldn’t—love him back. “It was a mistake to cuff and arrange me for your pleasure, too,” he remarked, almost lazily, watching the other man’s expression.

He felt his fingertips grazing his cheek, then move into his lips, smearing the blood. Krennic bit the finger playfully, sucking it. “You’re so beautiful like this,” Galen said, softly, almost reverently, and Krennic felt the praise going straight to the bottom of his belly, a warm, coiling feeling. “I did want to hurt you. But I don’t think I could stomach it.”

_Liar_ , he almost said, but Krennic bit his tongue. “Then undress me properly,” he bit out, rubbing himself against him in an effort to gain more friction, feeling emboldened by his growing control of the situation. “Show your good, dirty, slutty boy that you want him.”

Galen’s lips curved up into a small smile, and Krennic wanted to kiss that smile, hard. “You _are_ a dirty, slutty boy, aren’t you? But whether or not you’re a good boy is still up for debate,” he remarked, and Krennic was manhandled, lifted and pushed on the desk behind him, and their lips met, hungrily. The other man marked him some more on his exposed throat, collarbone and chest, pinning him down with his body, and Krennic struggled against him, thrusting his hips up.

“Not good enough,” he said, keening, thrusting again. “More.”

“You’re impatient _and_ demanding,” Galen said, but he complied, leaving more marks. “There,” he pulled back, admiring his handiwork, fingertips tracing the angry hickeys. “Now you are too beautiful to resist.”

“Less talking, more touching, Galen. I’m not your science project,” Krennic told him, indignantly, shifted himself, utterly displeased because he couldn’t touch him in any way, or even himself, for that matter. He strained against his restraints, wrists pinned under his own weight. “Come _on_.”

Krennic could see it in his eyes—that he wanted him almost as much Krennic craved him, if not more—for a fraction of a second before Galen closed the distance between them again, his lips on his, unbuttoning the leftover buttons on his shirt, then moved down to undo Krennic’s belt and unzip his jeans, taking out his firm cock. He felt his lips on his inner thigh after the other man pushed down both his jeans and his briefs, then the familiar pinpricking sensation again. Krennic threw his head back, a string of moans interspersed with curses leaving his lips, and the haze consumed him. He felt Galen’s mouth on his cock, afterwards, a vivid sensation despite the blurring of the rest of the world, and it wasn’t long until he reached completion, writhing, thrusting his hips. He didn’t come inside the other man’s mouth, instead, he felt him cup his cock, coaxing him to come on his hands, and he did, messily, forehead damp with sweat afterwards.

When he bit his neck again, Krennic could almost pretend that Galen (still, if ever) loved him back, and all of this was for love (that he truly _wanted_ him, and that it wasn’t something else, something that twists things in his mind, bite as invader, bite as amnesia and anaesthetic both) and not just another notch of debauchery in their bed post.

The illusion did not hold.

**seven—**

Sometimes, he dreamt about how it was before, when the sun was still theirs.

Sometimes, Krennic reflected on how it was before, before the lie had eclipsed sun and moon both, leaving them both in complete darkness, sky a yawning void, sky an open wound waiting to eat them whole. He first met Galen Erso at a seminar that he took on a whim back when he was still in college—not exactly something in his syllable, but something to pass the time—and it took them a spilled coffee, a boring lecture, and an accidental science joke for them to finally be friends, but even then Krennic could already tell that there was something special about him. Not something dark, no, something otherworldly and ethereal, a landline to another reality, if he was more of the poetic sort. He had been attracted to Galen from the beginning, first from his shy, secret smiles—catching one was akin to catching a glimpse of a rainbow—then to his brilliant, scintillating mind, and eventually the rest of him, blood and bone and stardust eyes. He knew that Galen returned his attraction, at least partially, at least Krennic alone was absolutely _certain_ about that, until Lyra came along.

Lyra. Moderately beautiful, troublesome, and absolutely, very much dead.

She was killed in a hiking accident a couple of years back, and Krennic knew Galen mourned her. Perhaps a part of him—untouched and frozen, like a fly trapped in an amber—mourned for her still, but Krennic never saw any hint of that. In fact, if he reflected on it, Galen’s emotions now only touched the surface, like he was dead but pretending to be alive, still, a ghost in human skin. He wondered for whose benefit it was—his or Galen’s.

And he wondered, still, always, what happened during the year when he went missing.

Sometimes, after they’ve had a particularly rough sex and the haze clears just enough for Krennic to get a gist of what they’d just done, of the prickling, ugly sensation on his throat and sometimes the inside of his thigh, and the vagueness that always accompanied it after, along with the slight dizziness, he wondered if what happens to Galen was his fault, in some archaic, indescribable way. He wondered if it was because he loved him all too much for their own good, or if it was because he wanted Galen to love him back so, so much, the desire burning inside him day and night like the immortal flame in the altar of some ancient, unknown deity.

Was it wrong to want someone to love you back so much? Was it wrong, the need, the desire to be loved back, to be held dear by the one who meant the world to you?

This is not a quiet lie. It is violent and shattering, and worse, Orson Krennic had realised that since the beginning. He simply chose not to see.

**eight—**

“Perhaps we need to break off this arrangement.”

Galen said, and Krennic was about to start the engine. They were sitting in his car in the parking lot of the hospital, the graveyard shift just ending, and Krennic had just picked him up. They’ve spent the last ten minutes or so smoking in silence, the window cranked open to let the smoke out, night prowling outside the limited safety and warmth of the car. Krennic glanced at him, tried to remember the last time they were sitting together in silence and enjoy each other’s company instead of secretly detesting it and each other. He tried to remember, too, the last time they laughed together, with each other, instead of the poisonous silence that grows and grows between them like a strangling vine.

He couldn’t remember, and he felt anger rising inside of him like high tide at noon, inevitable and merciless.

“You mean this? You want me to stop picking you up after work twice in the week?” He said, hand curling into a fist, wishing that he could light another cigarette without his hands shaking. Wishing that he could say anything else without accidentally lighting anything on fire. “Might I remind you that it was _your_ suggestion?”

Galen was the picture of calm, and Krennic could feel a snarl coming. Perhaps he’d always been cold. “No, all of this. What we’ve had together. Whatever you’d call it. I’d like it to end.”

He couldn’t believe what he just heard, and Krennic laughed, a cold sound to match Galen’s lack of expression. “Now you’re just being funny, Galen. You should try going to an open mic night. You’re hysterical. They’re going to love you.”

“Spare me the sarcasm, Krennic,” he responded, and Krennic could feel his blood boiling, and he turned to look him square in the eye. “You know what I mean. You just don’t want to deal with the truth.”

“Oh, I _don’t_ want to now, am I?” He snarled, hands shaking. “You wanted to _stop_? Then what about the nights I’ve lost? The ones I’ve spent running errands for you? The ones I’ve spent grooming the hapless idiots that I’d fed to you? What about the nights where I don’t remember anything except that we’ve woken up in bed together? Do you have any idea of how many things you’ve stolen from me?” He cocked his head, breath coming in fast, anger flowing and then ebbing, replaced with a sudden, vast sort of exhaustion. “Do you even know that they said _I_ was the monster? The creepy bloodsucker from everyone’s nightmare? Of course I am, I’m the perfect setup. But fine, you wanted to stop like this was one of those silly computer games that you loved to play once. We can do that.”

A long silence fell between them, one that seemingly has no end nor beginning, and Krennic tried to steady his hands. Reached for the window and cranked it open again, so he can lit another cigarette. A flutter of fingertips alighted on his shoulder, briefly, and he shot the other man a glance—

It could be a trace of sympathy there, a hint of guilt. Perhaps if he squinted hard enough, he could see the old Galen, apologetic, reaching out to him like a ghost. Krennic turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Galen said, very quietly, and Krennic could hear the one he used to know in his voice. He lit a cigarette, deftly despite the situation, taking a drag. “I was…I didn’t mean to. I never wanted it to be this way.”

“Get out of my car.” he told him, calmly, just as quietly. There was a finality in his tone that brooked no argument, and he stared straight ahead, even as he heard the door opened and then closed again, as Galen slid out of the car and into the night.

The night marched on, merciless. After he finished his cigarette, he closed the window and started the engine, wiping whatever moisture was left there in his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

This is how the lie shattered them both.

**nine—**

The evening Galen comes back to find him was the one evening where Krennic had chosen to spend with his colleagues, the only thing he had that resembles friends. Previously, he had always refused their offer to hang out after work, and he knows what they say about him behind his back—that his gift, his rising career, and his looks had made him arrogant and cold, and that he considered all of them to be beneath him in one way or another—but regardless, he pretended that he didn’t know. He turned a blind eye to their obvious surprise too when he seeks them out to mention, ever so casually, that he was free that particular Friday evening. It was, as always, easier to pretend.

As it was easy to pretend that he was enjoying himself that evening, eating food he barely enjoyed (some fusion cuisine in a hip Japanese restaurant downtown) with people he barely know, who all expressed adoration towards him or his work in some way, although both are hardly mutually exclusive. Even so, it was good company, if somewhat shallow (left him feeling hollow and emptied-out, although it was a constant feeling that he felt, a state of being at this point), and Krennic was about to excuse himself to the bathroom for a bit when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned, half-smiling, joke still half-undone (the same one that he had told multiple times, just modified to fit the crowd) and everyone’s gaze followed his. His smile faltered when he saw who it was, and there was a moment of silence as he looked at Galen—the man he loved, the man he’d lost, two sides of the same coin—and was struck speechless. The other man looked disheveled, on edge, like a catastrophe, abbreviated and condensed in a human body. Krennic could feel the eyes of everyone on the table on him, watching, waiting for him to falter and fall from the pedestal they’d constructed for him. His gaze flitted to them, and he gave them all a perfunctory smile.

“I’ll be back soon,” he told them, smoothly sliding out of his seat. “Please continue without me.”

The walk to the parking lot outside was short and filled with the noise of silence between them, and Krennic kept his pace brisk, walking before Galen, barely looking at him. He took his time and lit a cigarette when they were outside, regretting the fact that he’d left his jacket inside. Luckily there was no breeze, and the night—at least to him—was as cool and smooth as the edge of silence.

“What do you want, Galen?” He asked him, without any preamble, coldly, after a certain amount of silence. Krennic spared the other a glance, but only the briefest amount of it, and the space between them was as painful as the one between the stars. He doesn’t even bother asking the other man of how he found him. Galen always does. Even when Krennic doesn’t want to be found.

There was another silence, a longer one, as Krennic took one drag after the other, emptying his lungs of smoke and then filling it again, a cycle that was as endless as the night. Galen didn’t smoke. There was the occasional headlights from the cars going from the restaurant and other, nearby places, the lights of the city in the distance. The sky was cold and black and bleak, and winter was already in the air. There were no stars visible to the naked eye. It was easy to imagine that all of this—neon lights and half-empty parking lots and muted noise, dark sky above—was the entire world, on nights like this.

“I wanted to apologise.” Galen finally said, breaking the silence that had started to gnaw on them both like the autumn chill. Krennic smirked, almost but not quite, keeping his gaze on the cars, sleeping suburban deities, as cold and empty as the night sky. He turned, slightly, to face Galen.

“For what? For taking advantage of my foolish obsession? Or for not loving me back?”

For one moment, he saw the naked hurt in Galen’s eyes, as plain as day, and it awakened something dreadful in him, something terrible. He wanted to kiss him, still, to tell him how much he loved him and that he always will, but Krennic turned away instead. Something between them has changed. It has been, for a long time, but he refused to see it.

He felt the other man’s arms around him, suddenly, embracing him from behind, and Krennic made no move to return it, but he didn’t try to push him away, either, and he felt Galen tucking his chin on his shoulder as he took another long drag, head tilted up slightly, towards the heavens. He kept looking at the sky, now. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Perhaps the stars.

“I- I’m sorry, Orson,” he started, his voice a whisper, and Krennic felt like something in him was being torn open. Something in him had gone away and never returned. “I don’t know…if I can ever make it up to you. If I could return to you what you have lost…I would.”

It was something that sounded so absurd, and yet so fitting, so solemn in the graveyard silence of the parking lot, that Krennic wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry, too. Had wanted to do both for a long time now. He shifted slightly, feeling Galen’s arms around him tightens, as if he was afraid that Krennic would leave, even if that is not an option. No, that was _never_ an option. They were too tightly bound to each other, and no matter what shape of wound they had given each other, they could never let go of each other. Some people are like that. This is one of the earliest lessons Krennic had learnt, from watching her mother and the man that was supposedly his father.

It was sick, twisted, and violent, just like the lies they’ve been telling each other, and worse, he loved it. He doesn’t know if he could live, truly, without Galen Erso. The prospect of a life without him, however free, was an empty, bleak one, like the ocean of void between worlds, and he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —stomach that. The ghost of a smile touched Krennic’s lips, but only briefly.

“I don’t think you could,” he told the other man, still cold, still not facing him (what he lost wasn’t just his own loss but a man, the man whose body he can feel and whose arms are enveloping him), but a heartbeat later (Galen’s lips are a little too close to his neck and Krennic felt his breath catching, remembering all the nights that he doesn’t remember, the memories shrouded and gone like the stars above the city, all the tiny pinpricking pain, and the shallow, overwhelming pleasure afterwards, and for a second he was afraid that Galen would do that again to him tonight, although perhaps it doesn’t matter), Krennic turned, wanting to look at him at first, watching the other man’s reaction, but somehow, always, their lips ended up together, and it was a slow, nice kiss, the kind that they no longer had, and that Krennic simply assumed that they’d run out of. It felt like their first kiss, just a little, and he found himself wishing to be that naive again, in those days long gone like a fabled lost city. He was in his arms, then, one arm slung around Galen’s neck sloppily, his cigarette in his other hand forgotten. They kissed each other until they—or at least Krennic—doesn’t feel cold anymore, and only after that did Krennic took a step back.

Galen looked a little awestruck, a little like he was finally alive again after years and years of darkness and eternal night, and once upon a time, that was precisely what Krennic wanted to see. But now he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“I love you,” Galen blurted out, taking a step forward, but hesitation got the best of him. “I should have told you that sooner.”

Krennic smiled, as he always did, but took a step back, just outside of his reach. He took another drag, blowing the smoke in Galen’s face. There was a rigidity in the other man’s expression now. “But are _you_? Or was it something else? My body, perhaps? Or…my blood?”

Galen looked appropriately equal parts surprised and hurt by Krennic’s insinuation, and Krennic’s smile widens. He waited, patiently for once, smoking. “I…perhaps to some degree. But,” Galen closed his eyes for a moment, then opened it again, holding Krennic’s gaze. “But I- I tried, Orson. I tried to…to find out. If I really loved you,” his hand curled into a fist. “Or if it was something else. Those things.”

“Did you try to love me too?” Krennic simply remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Was it particularly hard? Or was it easy because you needed someone to replace Lyra, after her death?”

Galen winced again, and Krennic turned to look at the sky, putting some more distance between them. “Let me try and make it up to you,” he said, quietly. “But if you don’t want me anymore…I can understand.”

“It’s not that simple of an equation, Galen,” Krennic retorted, turning around to face him again. “This isn’t a human body you can cut and sew back. Or an engine whose parts you can replace and make new again. I wanted you,” he added, taking a drag. “At least most nights. And I wanted you still. In more ways than one. In a way, that’s my cross to bear, and my downfall,” he smiled, wryly. “But it’s still not that simple.”

Uncertainty snaked through him like a hidden predator— _did you really want him or was it his whatever-you-called-it_ , the voice in the back of Krennic’s mind said, _not only now but also back then, during all those nights you’ve lost_ —but he took a step forward, stepping within Galen’s reach again. It was a question that he asked himself a dozen million times, and which Krennic still hasn’t found the concrete answer to.

But at least of one thing he was certain: back when the sun was still theirs, he loved him, his man with stardust eyes.

“What do you want, then, Orson?”

“What do _you_ want, Galen?” Krennic echoed, a mirror, fingertips touching his cheek. “Do you want me to stay? Want me to go home with you again tonight?”

Galen’s gaze, Krennic noticed, went briefly down to his throat, but he quickly held Krennic’s gaze again, favouring him with a slight smile. He wrapped his arms around him again, pulling him for a quick kiss. “I do. Stay with me.”

“I will.”

But when they kiss again, the illusion doesn’t hold, and Krennic thought back to all the nights they’d shared—the ones he’d lost—and his doubts grew. He didn’t tell Galen that he loved him, too, even after he’d made the quick trip inside to fetch his jacket and excuse himself. Even after they’d left the parking lot, in his car, with the bleak sky and no stars.

The lie had shattered them, and nothing between them would ever stay the same again.

* * *

It was sickeningly sweet, how they kissed and touched and groped each other after they’d reached Krennic’s apartment, the night left behind the closed, locked door, their discarded clothing articles becoming an army of temporarily forgotten things as they progressed towards the bedroom. It makes him feel sick, this illusion of falling in love again, of making up after a fight. They had never made up. It was impossible to close the shape of the wound that they had given each other, and it was just as impossible to return the man Krennic thinks— _feels_ —he used to know and loved, or the nights and the innocence that he’d lost (although many people would express doubt on the subject of him ever being innocent in the first place, but all wounded children once was). Yet, Galen’s lips now touched his like those of a lover, his fingers barely touching Krennic’s hard-on—so much like the old days, so unlike the one dominating his vague memories—instead holding on, no, _clinging_ to him like it was their last shared night together, not the first again after a month apart.

A month, and already, the hunger inside of Krennic had grown monstrous and merciless, and he bit the other man’s bottom lip, savouring the hushed moan he emitted after the act. He was straddling him, and Galen was sitting on the edge of the bed ungracefully, perched there like some sort of a grand vision. Krennic kissed him again, smiling slightly against his lips when he felt his arms going down his now exposed torso, exploring. The last remnants of their clothing—their underwear—lay near the open door to the bedroom.

“I want you to do to me what you always do,” he told him, fingers trained to trace Galen’s naked thigh. “But no biting tonight. I want to…I want to remember this. All of it.”

Galen’s fingers touched Krennic’s chin, briefly, and then flitted down to his throat, and then his collarbone. There was the ghost of a smile gracing his lips. “I have other plans for you tonight, Orson. But if that’s what you want.”

Krennic smiled, tightly, landing a hungry kiss on his lips before pulling away, getting off the bed in one quick move, and reached to the bottom drawer of the nightstand. It was where they kept their toys here, and he pulled out a leather collar. He fingered it briefly, thoughts flitting through his mind like parallel intersecting lines of a distant city-planet, gaze alighting on Galen, but only briefly, too, before slipping it on, crushing his own doubts. He adjusted it on his own neck, making sure that Galen was watching and that it was a little on the tight side. This is the colour and shape of his obsession, of the infatuation that he’d mistaken, for so long, as love. He still wanted it so bad.

He still wanted _him_ so bad. But he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —stand the illusion of love Galen is trying very hard (not alone) to sustain tonight, and it was after all always easier to escape to an enjoyable fantasy and the headspace that the role would provide for him. This is how he lived, he thought, as he returned to the other—letting him appraise him for a moment before climbing back into his lap—tethered to Galen. Galen tilted his chin up, lips briefly touching the space just above the collar. Krennic felt a shiver down his spine.

“You’re beautiful,” he remarked, after pulling back, lips curving into the smile that Krennic loved the most. He felt desperation welling up in him at that time, the unbearable desperation that despite everything he’d done for Galen, despite everything he’d freely given him and even those that he took away from him, he would never own that smile. “I like you better when you’re mine. Will you obey?”

_I’m always yours_ , he thought, but didn’t say it, instead smiled, feeling Galen’s fingers caressing his thigh, then the tip of his hard cock. “Yes, sir.”

It was easy to slip into the role and to forget the events preceding this and the evening in general, although he could tell that Galen had some inner turmoil—Krennic pretended that he didn’t notice—and he was hardly surprised (instead expecting it) when he was being pulled closer forcefully, Galen’s lips on his, muffling his moans as his hands begin touching his naked body.

“You’re not allowed to kiss or touch me back unless I specifically allow you to, do you understand?” He said, after the mostly one-sided kiss, the softness of it edged with a hint of authority and the faintest hint of a challenge. “You’re not allowed to prematurely come, too, without my express permission. You’ll only speak when spoken to, say only yes or no when asked a question, and keep your pretty eyes on me. If you wanted me to stop, you’ll say your own middle name. Under no circumstance are you allowed to do anything without my permission. Is that clear?”

It was the set of rules that he was expecting, the one that Krennic was familiar with at this point, but still, a jolt of surprise passed through him as a gap in his memory was filled. He was fascinated, for a moment, then resentment and bitterness snaked through him as the realisation of the extent of Galen’s true control on him hits, but he kept his expression impassive. “Yes, sir,” he told him again, sighing, tongue wrapped around the syllables like it has always been this way, like there has never been any other way. The lingering combination of resentment and bitterness and suppressed anger ebbed away, as Galen kissed him again full on the lips, pulling Krennic closer by the waist. He almost moved to deepen the kiss but managed to stave off the desire to, instead letting the other man satisfy his own desire for him, while Galen’s hands caressed and groped Krennic’s exposed body freely. Krennic kept his hands to himself, as he was ordered to do, keeping them where Galen can see them, fighting the rising urge to touch him back as the desperation started building up. It was the exact sort of excruciating, exquisite torture that Krennic wanted, being so close to Galen, their naked bodies pressed together intimately while Krennic was straddling him, but he wasn’t allowed to touch him at all. He moaned as Galen started stroking his cock, feeling heat rising to his cheek as he was brought closer to the brink with his every touch. It ended far too soon.

“Go put on a cock ring,” Galen ordered, pulling away, and Krennic felt the loss of his touch acutely. “Don’t touch yourself more than necessary. Then come back to me.”

There was a coldness in his tone that prompted a swift obedience, as the desire for his approval welled up within him, and Krennic nodded briefly before doing as he was told. He climbed off him and the bed, going back to the same drawer in the nightstand, this time pulling out a cock ring, once more feeling the other’s gaze on him as he puts it on, biting his bottom lip to suppress the escaping noises when he pushed it past the tip and smoothed it. He was already leaking, the precome coating his cock lightly and making it slick to the touch.

“Come here,” came the next command, and Krennic obeyed, making his way over to him, maintaining a carefully neutral expression and his gaze trained on him, as he was ordered to do. He stopped in front of the other, still seated on the edge of the bed, once more appraising him, but this time there was something vicious in his gaze, something hungry and monstrous and terrible. Krennic felt his own hunger rising in him, coiling in the pit of his stomach like a fire-snake, but he held Galen’s gaze, staying still. “That’s much better,” Galen remarked, satisfied, and Krennic felt some tension lifting from his body. “Now come closer. I want to give you a small reward for being a good boy.”

It was anticipation that made itself known this time, and, before he could assert some measure of self-control, he was already climbing the bed, assuming his earlier position on Galen’s lap. The other man immediately pulled him closer, fingertips alighting briefly on his cheek. Krennic savoured the touch, leaning to it, wondering what he would do—or order him to do—next.

“Kiss me,” he told him, soft as a lover’s sigh instead of a hard-edged command, and Krennic pressed his lips on his, chastely at first, then quickly deepens it and angles himself for a more passionate one, feeling the other returning the kiss. It lessened the frustration some, although he was pushed away far too soon, and for a moment he was about to tell himself to hell with it and move to seize another kiss from Galen. But experience, no matter how half-remembered and murky, told him that this wasn’t a good idea in the long run, and he was too deep in the role by now to gather a reasonable amount of defiance. “What should you say now?”

“Thank you, sir.” He immediately responded, and actually mean it. He didn’t realise how much he actually craved the kiss—craved _him_ even in the tiniest ways possible—until Galen gave him a taste of it, but he understood perfectly that in order to gain more, first Krennic had to prove himself worthy of him. It has always been that way. There has never been any other way.

“Lie down on your side, put your wrists together behind your back. Stay still. I have something for you.”

Krennic could hazard a guess of where this is going, but he gave the other a nod as an affirmative before following the instructions he’d been given. He felt the shift soon after that as the other got off the bed, and it wasn’t hard to guess that Galen was opening the drawer, getting something from it and then closing it again. A moment later, his wrists were pulled, and he was cuffed, feeling the leather closing around his wrists and click in place. He tested the restraints briefly, shifting his body. The cuffs fit snugly, and it was another familiar sensation.

“Now that’s so much better, isn’t it?” Galen said, practically purring, his lips briefly touching the nape of Krennic’s neck near the collar, sending shivers down his spine. “I would not want my fuck toy to accidentally touch me without my permission,” he moved closer, and Krennic could feel a brush of the other man’s firm cock on his thigh, eliciting a moan from his lips. “I always have your best interests in mind, love. I’m sparing you from possible transgressions. What do you say to that?”

Galen’s fingers found his chin, turning Krennic slightly, forcing him to look at him, and he felt heat rising to his cheeks. This was old routine, he told himself, _not something new_ …but that doesn’t make it any less humiliating. He fumbled for his words like a man trying to find his keys in the dark, suddenly forgetting how to use them.

“Th- thank you, sir,” he managed to force out, raw and embarrassed, only stuttering slightly. Galen seems satisfied, not so much by the words as the humiliation writ large on his face. “Your _fuck toy_ , sir?”

It was bait as much as blatant seduction, and Krennic had to smile slightly at that. His options might be vastly reduced to begging, complying, and moaning when Galen wants him to during these sessions, but he wasn’t just good at breaking the rules, he was also good at subverting them. And he wanted to hear Galen tell him what he was, as much as the other wanted to hear him thank him for being restrained earlier.

Galen looked thoughtful for a moment, and he shifted himself slightly, letting go of Krennic’s chin, their bodies pressed close together. Then Krennic felt him pull him close, and he didn’t resist, feeling himself being angled to face him. He didn’t know just yet if he was going to be punished for the deliberate slip of the tongue or if Galen was going to take the irresistible bait, but it was an academic question at this point. Galen grabbed a handful of his hair, careful in its execution but surprising just the same. Krennic smiled, not blandly or obediently, but enigmatically, enjoying this as much as the other. Their little games have always been interesting.

“Yes,” Galen said, carefully, looking deep into his eyes. “You are. Never forget that you are a fuck toy. The most beautiful one I’ve ever had, but a fuck toy nevertheless. Is that clear enough, doll?”

He liked the way he said it, and it turned him on—even more so—to hear Galen say that. Krennic tried to nod, but he was pulled closer roughly before he could give the other man that or a verbal affirmative, Galen’s fingers still on his hair. It was a rough, possessive kiss, hardly romantic, and Krennic was well aware of the way their bodies touched, how Galen’s other hand teased his body and how the cuffs make him dependant on the other man in more ways than one, inhibiting his movements. If he felt frustrated and desperate earlier, now he felt helplessness rising within him, being put in such a vulnerable and compromising position, while the other is free to kiss and touch him as he pleased, even if they are both naked.

“Tell me you understand,” Galen told him after he was done kissing him, hand caressing Krennic’s cheek.

“Yes, sir.” Krennic responded, feeling a darker sort of understanding dawning within him, even as he rubbed himself lightly against the other, seducing but not quite. Of course he is Galen’s fuck toy, a voice in the back of his mind said, he had never been more than that, even if Galen truly did not realise it. Once, it had been enough. Once, when he willingly turned a blind eye to what they were—not the bodies that Krennic had sold so easily to Galen, not Lyra’s ghost, not the late-night errands, the missing nights from his memory, not even the planted rumours, snaring Krennic in the midst of it like a spider (although he’d long asked himself if he were truly the spider, or if he were just a fly like all the others), or their public relationship, if it could be called that at all—it had been more than enough, sustaining what he used to think of as his devotion towards Galen like a fire, blazing bright enough to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.

Once, waking up beside him had been enough.

If he had unwittingly sold his soul to the Devil—like how his dead mother used to curse him before he left her, house burning not long after he left—then he had no regrets about that. The only regret that Krennic has ever had was that the Devil did not love him back.

Galen, however, had no idea of the thoughts that ran through his mind, and a stray thought ran through his mind before submerging itself in the partial darkness of forgetting: it is the only part of him that he could never own. Something like buried resentment shot through Krennic as the other man positioned him back on his side, so he could start fucking him. Finally, he thought, absently, it took him long enough. The resentment was all he could think about as he was being prepped, and when Galen slid his cock inside his ass, Krennic was more than happy to lose himself in the high and forgot everything.

After he came inside him—and it doesn’t take him long—Galen disengaged himself from Krennic, satisfied, and Krennic let his shoulders sag for a bit, feeling something that wasn’t relief, but close to it. Perhaps if they had gone with what Galen wanted—trying to relive that small slice of nonexistent, missing paradise—the illusion would have shattered completely, exposing all the dirty ugly lies that they had built their relationship upon, and the equally horrendous desires they had harboured. It was so much better this way.

He was being pulled, then, to a sitting position, a little roughly, and he felt the other man’s fingertips touching his bound wrists, tracing the leather, before unbuckling the cuffs, fingers massaging Krennic’s chafed wrists lightly. Then he pulled away again, always all too soon.

“You can clean yourself up if you want,” Galen said, always a little too coldly, already distancing himself. “You can take off the cock ring now. Touch yourself to climax. Give me a show.”

Despite that, he lit a cigarette, and Krennic watched Galen as he fetched the missing articles of his clothing, trying to get dressed while smoking, only propping himself back on the edge of the bed after he had put on his trousers and shirt. Krennic looked at him, not quite comprehending.

“Aren’t you going to stay the night?”

There was a long silence as Galen blew a lungful, smoke painting images, ghosts from the past, childhood wishes. Flights of fancy that Krennic had started burying a month ago, and perhaps even longer before that, like the dead bodies. Krennic waited, partially in dread of what Galen had to say in response.

“I am,” he said, nonchalant, and for a moment Krennic wanted nothing more but to wrap his arms around him, forgetting their roles, their relationship, who they were to each other. The shape of wound that they had carved for each other. The violent, shattering lies and the equally violent nights. The blood. There must always, always be blood, for the night is a merciless, unforgiving mistress, and there are no gods. But he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —forget. Not now. Not after the shattering. “I told you, I am staying with you, Orson,” Galen continued, his tone softening fractionally. But their eyes did not meet, and even if, in his heart of hearts—if he still had such a thing after all these years—Krennic wanted nothing more than to believe him—desperately so, he realised—he wasn’t convinced. “And you’ll stay with me.”

Krennic held his tongue, an unspoken question. _How long_. But Galen did not know, did not care. He took another long drag, and Krennic sighed.

“I’ll sleep in your guest room. Now, why don’t you get started? I thought I’ve ordered you to take off the ring and climax by yourself.”

It is violent and shattering, and although Krennic pictured Galen touching him like he did earlier when he brought himself to climax inside of him, he was picturing him as he did all those years ago, stardust in his eyes and the sun, lost and obscure, in his smile.

He only felt a wide, wavering hollowness after he came, hard, spilling his seed to his open palm, Galen still smoking on the edge of his bed.

It’s not the same. It’s never going to be the same.

**ten—**

Krennic hadn’t slept long when he felt the bed shift, and he slept lightly enough to immediately register what— _who_ —it was, the familiar footsteps (heavy but with a tinge of lightness to it that he can never quite describe, a hidden grace) morphing into the familiar sensation of Galen, climbing into bed beside him, pulling the covers just enough to let himself in. He forced his eyes open, batting his sleepiness away, moving just enough to look at him.

“I thought you said you’re occupying the guest room,” Krennic said, sleepily, the words blurring only slightly like an old photograph taken in a hurry. There was no accusation in his voice, attempted or not, just a statement, and despite his valiant attempts to bat the tiredness away, he still couldn’t push it away enough to decipher Galen’s expression, partially hidden by the half-dark of the room. He half-expected Galen to turn off the nightlight before he settled down beside him, but he didn’t do that.

“I did. But—“ something crossed his expression, something curious and rare, but it was too dark to see. “I missed you already.”

If he was more awake and less tired, Krennic would ask him why he didn’t stay and sleep with him in the first place, but he was all too sleepy to argue. He instead murmured something like assent when Galen gathered him in his arms, drawing him close.

“What time is it?” Krennic asked, voice muffled slightly by the fact that he had his face half-buried in Galen’s shoulder. He shifted a little, adjusting himself to be more comfortable, but he didn’t wrap his arms around him in return, just letting himself be held. He’d hold on to him enough in the past.

“Near dawn,” Galen responded, his voice the only thing in the world, fingers threading through Krennic’s hair, smoothing it. “Go back to sleep.”

“Not yet,” he muttered, briefly enjoying the sensation of Galen’s fingers in his hair, the familiar press of his body and the reassuring feel of his arms around him. It doesn’t last, and he felt the earlier resentment bubbling inside him, this time lined with fury. “Why did you do it? Why did you choose me?”

“Do what?” Galen asked, and Krennic could almost believe the confusion in his voice. “What are you talking about, Orson?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he said, anger simmering and threatening to spill over. He pushed the other man away, aware of not only the fury embedded in every syllable but also the hatred underscoring it. “Our little partnership or whatever it is you called it. It sure as hell wasn’t a relationship because you never did love me back. _You manipulated me_ ,” he turned to face him, hauling himself up to a sitting position, hands curled up into fists. Snarling. “You made sure that _I_ would do your dirty jobs for you and set me up to take the fall. In the meanwhile, you can take whatever you want from me, draining my blood whenever you feel like it, which gave you power over me. And _that_ makes me your personal fuck toy,” he jabbed a finger at Galen, still surprised at his sudden outburst, or at least seem like it. “Does that make you happy, Galen? That you are actually in _charge_?”

There was a long silence as Galen held his gaze, still and quiet, face partially lit by the white artificial light from the night light perched on the night stand. Krennic wanted to shake him, to shout at him, but part of him wanted nothing more than to pull away from him, to withdraw into himself. A thought, series of images crossed his mind: him packing what little possessions he valued, put them in the back of his car, and drive away, leaving town. It was possible. He could make a life for himself in another place, get a new job. Perhaps even something big, like he’d always dreamed of, away from the past and all its ghosts, away from it all, from Galen, even. It was for the best.

But no, Krennic thought to himself, as he pressed his lips into a thin line, jaw hardening. His life was here with Galen, whether he liked it or not. Whether they had lied to each other and to themselves, or not.

Galen reached out, his fingers a thread of light in the soft, lightening darkness, and Krennic flinched from his touch, remembering all the things that he’d done and sacrificed for him, all the nights he’d lied about how much he wanted him, when he only wanted the high, the escape, the lie. It all seemed so golden back then, so simple.

“You did it yourself, Orson,” Galen said, quietly, softly, his fingertips brushing his cheek lightly, and Krennic, with a sinking feeling, knows it in his heart to be true. “I was trying to avoid you when I…when I came back. But you won’t let me go. Then I…I’ve had an idea. You told me I could do it. You told me I could…taste you.”

The words brought him back in front of the locked door, the one where he always found himself, and this time, it was unlocked. He was afraid of what he would find if he opened the door. Krennic draws back, eyes blazing. “Don’t touch me,” he said, with more viciousness and force than he originally intended to, and he watched Galen’s fingers fall, a defeated look in his eyes. Something in him broke, and he thought that it wasn’t possible, because it had always been broken. “I don’t even know _how_ you did it. And I don’t fucking _care_ . But don’t you dare blame _me_.”

Galen looked so crestfallen, so innocent, that Krennic could almost believe him, part of him wanted nothing but to press a small kiss on his lips, and apologise, apologise, apologise, make it all better—

Perhaps there was truth in what he said, but Krennic doesn’t know what is true anymore. He sighed, letting his shoulders sag in exhaustion. It had been a long night. It has always been.

“Do you want me to leave?” Galen asked, gaze barely meeting his. Krennic leaned back on the bedpost for a moment, before resuming his earlier position, laying down, back to him.

“No,” he said, and he was surprised that it wasn’t a lie. He was too tired to argue with himself, too. “Stay. It’s almost morning.”

He could imagine the look on Galen’s face, then—confusion mixed with surprise—and there was silence, a lighter one, before the bed shift, and Krennic felt his familiar weight beside him, touching but not quite.

“I love you, Orson,” the other man said, very quietly, after they’d lie together in silence and incomplete darkness for a while, and Krennic felt sleep slowly overtake him. “You may not believe me, but I do. Love you, I mean. I love you.”

I loved you too, Krennic thought to himself, as sleep claimed him, feeling Galen’s fingers in his hair, gathering him back into his arms. Once.

But not any longer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments & suggestions welcome. hmu @ tumblr: orsonkraennic


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